


to bake a cake in a saucepan

by kitkattaylor



Category: Troyler - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 09:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10694508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkattaylor/pseuds/kitkattaylor
Summary: (we're the cake, tyler. we're the cake.)





	to bake a cake in a saucepan

You.

You open your eyes and smile to yourself at the sky outside because you don't understand Monday mornings and you turn and press your nose into my skin. You sneak hands around my back to my belly button to the centre of my chest and prop your chin onto my shoulder and brush your smooth cheek against my stubble while I cling to the edges of sleep like the blanket you're nudging down my waist. 'Honey' you hum in that voice like you're playing Happy Families and are getting up to make lunchboxes for the kids. 'Honey, are you awake yet?' In my mind I moan your name but my voice hasn't awoken yet so I murmur unhappy sounds into the pillow. You knock cold feet into my ankles (how are they cold after a night where you steal the bed covers) and squeeze me and this is when the sunlight infiltrates my eyelids and I can see the shape of you leaping to clamber on top of me, the blanket now around my thighs. I shiver and you run your thumbs over the lines of frown on my face. You've picked up my glasses, sat up bare-chested, and you tell me to look at you. You don't understand Monday mornings, I think. You press heavily into my hipbones and I groan as you dance fingers up your chest and ruffle your hair. You grab my hands like puppet-strings and let me feel your skin, down, down, to down under your boxers...I pull my arms back and drop them over my eyes. You laugh and kiss the cross made by my forearms. You pat my belly and wiggle your bottom as you stand up, taking the bedcovers with you into the kitchen. I don't fall back asleep.

You fall back asleep. Three times. You understand Sunday mornings.

You swing out from where I hold your waist then curl into my collarbone, making a bed for yourself where we stand waiting for the elevator. I answer your nonsensical questions and thoughts as best I can and pull my jacket further around your shoulders, secretly thrilling in your weight pressed against mine, in getting to hold you, though it's me you've let carry you home, drunk or sleepy or drunk and sleepy, for five years now. Five, four, three, two, one... 'Home,' you sing and tumble against the mirror. 'Not here,' I say. You stare into your reflection and pull me to your side, turn at my side, and smile in your angelic-devil way as you reach to kiss my hairline. 'Let's fuck in front of the mirror,' you whisper, tugging teeth around my earlobe. You're wrapping yourself around me when the doors open and the single mother from two doors down appears, eyes wide with surprise and a hint of polite laughter. You fall onto the couch. 'Not here,' I say. You slide down against the bathtub, toothbrush in mouth. 'Not here!' I repeat, turning off the taps you'd left on. You practically fall asleep standing up between the doors of your wardrobe. I tuck you into bed, kiss your temple, turn off the light, but the second I pull my shirt over my head and (with a small wobble) slip off my socks, I catch you watching, sudden bright eyes peering over your fists holding the blanket. You're all wriggly and warm and _awake_ and I can't fight you anymore, you're all toothy-grins and I love your toothy-grins, but the second I surrender and untangle myself from your kiss and limbs to stumble to the bedside draw, you're asleep, drooling into the space where you'd called me 'the best boyfriend.'

'Yeah, love you too,' you say, waiting for the elevator, one hand texting, one hand pushing me away, as I drunkenly lean into you full of how beautiful you are.

You're bouncing up against the cushions, legs spread, hitched to my waist, sweaty palms pressed to your sweaty forehead then to my sweaty back. 'Baby, did you phone for the electrician today?' I nod. I moan as you thrust your hips up. 'Good, because I can't stand that flickering light...' You cradle my head and encourage me deeper. I bite my lip and my thighs quiver, clutching for purchase on your ass. 'Did I put the washing on?!' You gasp as I gasp in pleasure, dropping my head to your chest. You rub fingertips into my scalp. 'I think I did... _A little to the left_...'Cos you need your suit trousers for tomorrow.' Your muscles tighten and I groan at the wet warmth enveloping me, the sticky cum from your cock pressing into my stomach. You drum your fingers distractedly on my head. Picking up my pace, I raise my head and clear my throat. 'Did my parcel arrive?' 'Oh yes! It's on the table.' We kiss and fuck ourselves through orgasm then I heat up the oven and load the dishwasher as you fold out the ironing board, naked beneath your silky robe.

You didn't want to fuck tonight so you're reading on your side of the bed while I'm scrolling through news articles on the laptop. You've got a cute little dent between your eyebrows and I ask what your book's about but you just murmur something that sounds like 'reading' so I lean over to your thighs to read the title myself. It's my book you're reading, the one I'd told you about months ago. I'd kiss you and brag about it if I thought you wouldn't slap me away with a viciousness that never fails to make me laugh. The room cocoons with night and exhaustion pushes behind my eyes. I tuck the laptop away though you take it back out a moment later to Google something. 'Would you turn the light out?' I ask, sinking deeper into the mattress. You hum in acknowledgement but I have to remind you again. You whine. I kick you softly. It's 3am and I roll over to find you ducked beneath the bed covers, the pages of your (my) book lit up with a torch.

Neck aching, eyes scratchy, I brush my hands across the walls as I tip-toe into the room. 'Working late, don't wait up for me,' I'd texted. 'No time to sleep anyway,' you'd replied. 'I'll be waiting with a nightcap.' You're asleep, curled on top of the bedsheets. The laptop is open beside you, and your keyboard is by your feet. An empty mug is placed on the kitchen counter, with an assortment of coffee/tea/hot chocolate options laid out beside it. Silently sliding the laptop from the bed, and not-so-silently heaving the keyboard to lean against the wall, I shrug off my heavy reefer jacket and drape it over your body before crawling beneath the covers myself. My heart softens and slows and I sigh out in increments. I think I've succeeded in being quiet when the actual silence of my sleep seems to wake you. The coat crinkles as you turn and the buttons clash against the floor as you lazily toss it, shifting instinctively across to me. You don't speak, and neither do I, you just snuggle against my back in your jeans and t-shirt and leave it to me to pull the covers over you. You kiss the top of my spine and I think on how I love you, love coming home to this, when the velvet brush of your lips breaks into sudden snores and I'm startled back awake. 

You've been bored lately and you always say that boredom is good because boredom makes you creative, but you've been bored and uncreative and sad. You've got writer's block. And you finished your most recent Netflix series. Today you're home and things must be desperate because I keep having to text you from under the desk. 'Where do we keep our baking tins?' 'We don't have any baking tins? Can I put a saucepan in the oven?' To which I tell you not to bake a cake in a saucepan. You start texting me yoga positions you want to try. Then you suggest trying them with sex. I accidentally play the video you send me aloud in a meeting (yes, it's porn) and that's when I tell you to 'watch a film or something. Lord of the Rings, that's long.' You don't reply. I forget about it until I leave to come home and realise you still haven't texted me back. The house is eerily silent when I open the door. I leave my shoes in the corridor and pad into the living room to find you've dragged all the blankets down and made a den with the washing lines. The couch is stripped of its pillows, as I'm sure is the bed. The opening glows with a blue light and I poke my head inside expecting a snarky comeback of ' _Lord of the Rings, that's long_ ' but you are a mountain of fabric on a throne of cushions, tears rolling down your cheeks as the credits to the third film in the Lord of the Rings trilogy plays. You don't look at me as you pat the space beside you and I shuffle over quickly, still worried you're annoyed. But you just sling my arm behind your head and say 'The Hobbit now.'

I'm telling you how much I miss you. The hotel walls are so white where you're sat, drinking coffee, trying not to talk too fast because it's past midnight where I am. You're animated. You're telling me all these things all these wonderful things, how nice the people are how good the food is how I would love this singer you saw, then you pause, and you talk about the strange TV channels. I'm telling you how proud I am and how I miss you (again) ('Tyler, its only two weeks') when your phone rings and I know you have to go. We don't linger over goodbyes. We can't. So I close the lid of the laptop (where I'd had it propped up on your pillow on your side of the bed) and try not to feel how big the bed is without you (and how far the blanket can really stretch.) You open your eyes come Sunday morning and squint reluctantly at the light, at the tea you expect to be placed in front of you, the gentle nudge you expect on your shoulder, at the voice you think you hear, my voice, softly encouraging you to get up so we can spend the day together. You go to pull the blanket over your head and hide but there's no one to hide from.

You're telling me to sleep on the couch. You don't say it, but you slam the bedroom door. The air between us had grown taught and I snapped (I'm sorry) but you snapped just as quick once I'd called you out for pouting. 'You're just pissed off,' I'd said, following you as you paced away from me, preferring to brood and sulk. 'There's nothing we can do.' 'Why must you act so helpless?' I could sense the old accusations resurfacing before you said them. The room became heavy as if it were an upturned grave. Your hands flew about like spades. 'You couldn't get off either!' I protested, already wilting under your spotlight. Though I turned to flames quicker you burnt the building down. 'Why are we even fighting?' 'Because you're _infuriating_ , Tyler! We never get to be together and it's times like this I wonder if you want to be. Together, I mean...' You can't catch up to the thoughts in your brain. I'm ready to apologise when you point a finger at your chest, as if suggesting I were aiming the metaphorical-bullet there. 'Do you still think I'm too young?' 'It's been five years!' ' _I know!_ ' And that's where you slam the door. The window in the kitchen is bright with street lights and the voices of the apartments beside us echo into the room. I toss and turn and when I get up and approach the bedroom door the doorknob turns and there you are, approaching me. I tell you I've been saving up for a ring. We sleep in the same bed that night (bumping noses and tracing all our favourite places on each other's bodies like that birthmark by your eye (I kiss it.))

You are my favourite fantasy. Though I suppose you defy that definition, since you are neither impossible nor improbable, even if both impossible and improbable you often seem. 'I love you,' I whisper. I hope it's not lost its meaning, but even if the words don't reach you I put the meaning into my hands. 'I love your hands,' you say, gripping them, kissing them, letting them make your body weep. I plunge one, two, fingers inside you and wreak havoc with my fingertips, brushing them up, up. You purr and whimper and scream inside your throat, nails turned to talons as you seek the balance of the mattress. 'You-' you say and never finish as you pull me by my wrists and meet me with your tongue. Sweet; acidic. I reward the blush on your cheeks and the achingly pretty look in your eyes with a bite to your lip, the pouty lip, which I have so often said I hate. I love it. I love you. You don't bother saying it aloud and roll me to my back and brush my thighs with your fringe. Those pouty lips reward me in return _I'm turned to nonsense_....nonsense, nonsense... Your forehead is hot. 'I can read your mind' you tease and you do, oh you do, baby never stop. 'Why has time travel not been invented yet?' You ask. 'You'd use it for just one orgasm?' 'I'd use it for you,' you sigh; hazy, happy, fucked. 'Somehow, don't care how...What would you replay?'

It's like seeing you for the first time, all over again. But then it's not because there's nothing shy about you now (well, you're a little shy of the people watching you awkward-scuttle across the airport floor into my arms.) I wrap you up in our blanket from home and it's only once you've waved off your tears with a silly smile that you frown down at our bedding. 'Thought I'd bring home a little closer.' You whack my arm and sniff snottily as you laugh (cry). You look hilarious in the back of the cab. You have your head against the headrest as you watch the road outside, surprisingly busy for how early it is, though this is the city, come dawn or dusk. The skyscrapers fade like unfinished drawings into the misty sky. Our blanket catches in the door as you get out the car. We laugh softly in the crisp air, so crisp we feel the need to be quiet, and we're still lightly chatting as I wheel your suitcase into the bedroom, but that was all an act, wasn't it? Because you spin me round and plant the sweetest kiss on my mouth, holding my face as my legs press back into the frame of our bed. 'I missed this room,' you whisper, eyes closed. I stroke the backs of your hands. Your eyelashes flicker a little and I wonder on our little playground...our little shelter...our little house. You fall back onto the naked mattress, the bedsheets dropping from your shoulders to re-cover our bed, and I lay down next to you, and think of you, though when do I not?

You.

You reach between us to nudge my fingers and I feel for that little space. I rub it softly, wordlessly, and you turn your face with a knowing smile. 


End file.
